by Avy Varghese on Sunday, 31 July 2011 

Did you, like me, seek the Living God

to grab the bites he deals as death?

Because his hands are stung by nails,

he drives thorns into my weary head.


I’ve known this God and other spirits

to hate or damn our stubborn globe,

to confuse the happiness of all-born,

to tempt and tease, bedevil all-ease.


Whose woods these are I think I know,

this house is filled with pain and snow,

for celebrant-poets, he cares nothing,

our small markings on earth, despising.


To know worship, he lays two Stones,

a Tree to test both Man and Woman,

and with the Serpent, glowing friend,

he condemns our kind to a futile end.


Some say he wills to share his ‘love’

if you will, will to be his dying dove,

clasp scaldings close to barren soul,

to such are promised streets of gold.


I’ve tried this path, failed, all I gained

is knowing that life’s but a grey stain

left splashed upon an accursed Stone

that broke my skull, bled red, is gone.


Nothing more, nothing less, in between

thrum songs of birds, good lovers lost,

the God I sought fades, a super-ghost

who rattles chains inside febrile brains.


Now flit I along violet edges of dawn,

neither bat nor bird, a dusk forlorn

sinks into sea of night and I’m adrift

on vague currents that hide to shift.


by Avy Varghese on Saturday, 30 July 2011 

Who is this ‘I’ its itch scratching,

scraping up dry white patches,

interrogating angry red bruises?

Who is this blister, bubbling dome

o’er pustules that pulse, falling

soft as eggs in sticky white sauce?

Who is this owl, crouching unseen,

outside of friends, lovers, family,

whose brittle eyes scan midnights?

Who is this thought, is it a demon

or sly god who speaks in riddles,

rattles thin minds in invisible souls? 

Who are these words, hair-sprung,

skin, bones, teeth, muscle, balls,

semen-fires shot out as arrows?

Who is who or what or was or will

the ‘I’ or “am” or “is” or deed, ink?

Who dries up, a mirage, milk-spill?


by Avy Varghese on Thursday, 28 July 2011 

I saw the soul-Worm, sitting under that Fig Tree

serving the frivolities of life, land, lack, lust, luck,

family, flowers, food, fairies, fistulas, films, fucks,

awaiting the coming and going of angels of death

from beyond, above, everythere and underwhere.

I saw the spirit-Rower’s silken oar-wing spill wind,

clay feet crossing the clean waters of the Jordan,

carving a way in shit corpse-leys of a Ganga-Styx

flowing till forlorn, flickering, unwelcoming shores.

What is there to live for if free fountains foul up,

and sown in Worm and Rower is still, grey seed

of decay, rolled dice of depravity, derangement,

flesh-ink, meat-slabs, marrow-mince, moulting,

cellophaned, tagged, serried, show-cased, sold?

How grand we all look on the supermarket shelf,

ready-to-cook meals in aluminum foil served up

in Fool’s Gold bowls into which drunken idol-gods

piss, spit and vomit;

All of us are now baptised into a quotidian darkness

on a diminished earth that once flared, shimmering

star; how Worm, Rower, gods are smelted, liquefied

as drink-offerings poured out to the invisible Guest!

by Avy Varghese on Sunday, 24 July 2011

How devious, how diabolical!

How ill-means justify an end!

How the caste-myth is placed

in a primitive Adivasi‘s mouth!

How that royal Epic flowers as

scripture from old, sour teeth!

How holy Valmiki’s penance is

made Brahmin’s trick or treat!

Shambuka, Ekalavya, Mahabali,

Ravana, the Kauravas, Women,

degraded, devalued, devoured

by those who lied in the Name

of a Supreme Power! The Lord

now says: Vengeance is Mine!

Let the wheel turn along the rim

of the circles burnt by vultures

in the sky! Yes, a gigantic feast

is being prepared, Great Yagna,

this supper of the Greatest God!

Fowl of the air are gathering to

beak the luxuriant flesh of kings,

peck -burst the eyes of captains,

bristle the bones of mighty men,

spit horses and their hot riders!

None can escape what is coming,

not free nor bond, small or great,

and only when the birds are filled

shall Earth be cleansed of beasts!


by Avy Varghese on Friday, 22 July 2011 

And, before you,

Now I place

Red and Blue

Blue and Red



Will Full

Gopi Chakra Sin

Politico intestine

Word hissed sideways

Kurukshetra waste

Deceptacon Herder

Akeldama Herald

Flute and Snake

The failure that Lures

Area of Darkness

Vengeful Dancer

Devourer of Worlds

Vagina Dentata Void

And All-Blue justifies itself:

“They’re all already Dead.”



Will Minus

Lust of the World-Flesh

Heel that crushes Serpent-Hell

Apolitical Acultural

Word-Sword Wind-fed


Lost Coin-finder

Wound-Shepherd binder

Still waters green pastures

Psalms and Doves

The Failure that dares

Devourer of Abbadon -mites


Ancient Alone

Love-Child abused

Carver of High Ways

And Holy Mountain

Who will not destroy

Virgin Joy-Light All-Red justifies:

“See, Seen, All Things, New!.”


by Avy Varghese on Sunday, 17 July 2011 


I suffer

here, conquer


in the severe


I blister

I ulcerate





Broken Eyes

Open Jaws




Living Death



I’m the Outcast


whose Flock

has leapt

off the Cliff

of Sorrows





by Avy Varghese on Thursday, 14 July 2011 

Il negit duniya

I negate Kosmos, I who am none over all, Negatron, speak-less

Il zinnia Ushus

I, wind-flower, canoe as I will go, a flow-er run of petal-ills

Il kutnoth ‘or spectra

I dawn spectral robes, I white sheet light that binds you, night

Il vellum kutnoth ‘or

I paper skin, I drill pores, veils within doors, the seal-in flesh-wax

Il luminor Archons

I am remembrance, girls, gleaming echoes passing left anhat Ananda

Il ayoxsusta Brahmana

I, thus, wreath of death, wrath of wisdom, Brahmin semen, cold gold, lead.


by Avy Varghese on Friday, 08 July 2011

Consciousness is a light-bright snake

sneaking into the eye of the needle

in the rosy centre of the spinal cord,

she lies coiled in a basket, come, rise!

When the right tones are flute-piped,

her sparks come awake and heat up

to form a flash that travels up pelvis,

she stirs coiled below, waiting to climb.

There is milk to be drunk in this saucer

at the base of his backbone, love lies,

do not awaken it before it’s berry time,


she ripples, tousles, waits, impatience.

The right veda or shloka is uttered breath

we call Vak, it sets off inner explosions

as the rocket shoots up from loin to brain,

strands curl up, she is eye-hood, hoping.

All nerve complexes as obstacles are firing

and, you know, pain was never as glorious

as this, the serpent’s journey is compelling,

she is red, melting saffron, or yellowing.

A 150 channels of information are all tracked

by a flickering tongue dividing solar and lunar,

compressed and blasted up the funnel of soul,

she is seven in one, one in three, complicity.

Once it all turns green and proceeds to blue

when the poetic will expands as sea or sky,

every syllable precedes a world’s dissolution,

she knows what’s coming, she knows ecstasy.

How a stream of fire melts the pulsing marrow,

boiling lava in purple dress; swathed in indigo

hurt, a mirror-self soars as violet bodiless flow, 

she awakens, he too, Eden dies, dream Zion.


by Avy Varghese on Monday, 04 July 2011

Forget me like you did your navel

when a wet kiss opened a lower

chakra; hold in breath to control

for three minutes what a sower

sows as seeds of winter; gambol

for five minutes in a blue bower,

Keter-Chokmah-Chesed, O enroll

in furtive classes; smell a colour

hidden behind that 33rd footfall

when power circuits fail; honour

the subtle Saint of the Black Hole.


by Avy Varghese on Wednesday, 29 June 2011

This morning, when I  was shaken awake

by a familiar taste of Death on my lips,

a Word arose in the Lake of Remembrance:

“One who believes, adheres to, trusts in

and relies on Me, although he may die,

yet shall he live, and will never die at all.”

It was easy then to lick away the Dust

of Death, let it slide as a honeyed kiss

down my gullet; I am he who absorbs all.

Dust in my stomach, where acids growl

and break down unappetising insipidity;

revive now silent mist, vitamin dew-fall.

Dance the Dust devils down the alimentary

channels; alchemy turns a compulsory act

of excretion into the Moss-bed of hex-Life.

Dust unto Dust, the God sings new meanings

writ by the hands of forgotten sage-seering:

“Verily, He eats everything and therefore is

Death known as Aditi, she who is unlimiting.”


by Avy Varghese on Tuesday, 28 June 2011 

what’s the worst the Man can do to me?

stick me in that cage without bars

slice me with the knife of isolation

mock me with the gold that rusts

skewer me as dog meat that rots

smash my knees so i cannot pray

burn my tongue so i can’t scream

hurt people i loved once, perhaps

sell me like forbidden mushrooms

spit me under waters that choke

feed me to fires, red grim smoke

drown my good under volcanic ash

spin a chamber in russian roulette

this way the Powers will always know

break me, but you can’t make me bow

suffering is the strength i compose

and pain the weapon i de-compose

what’s the worst the Man can do to me?


by Avy Varghese on Monday, 27 June 2011 

First, white petals

or, perhaps, rose

sighs slap earth.

Then, crimson fruits

or, perhaps, green

globes spill flesh.

Now, the hard seeds

or, perhaps, pollen

dust sad disappears.

Dusk, breached twigs

or, perhaps, branches

break like raw notes.

Night, black leaves

or, perhaps, bats

hasten sullen death.

Dawn, the silver axe

or, perhaps, spittle

wakes the fallen sun.


by Avy Varghese on Thursday, 23 June 2011 

i lost my baby to a dark-skinned

shadow-thief,  just last night.

there was some blood on the sheet

and white, zigzag, running lines.

i am to blame; slyly she slipped out 

my lap, fell and broke her crown.

i watched her collapse as ice cream 

when she hit the floor, crumpling.

she is there in my memory; can I

write her back? Yes, but I won’t.

Some babies are best gone as buried

remembrances banned from light

and abortion, foeticide, miscarriage is

memorial to betrayal’s kiss, lost bliss.


by Avy Varghese on Tuesday, 21 June 2011 

“Count all things as loss,” one says.

“The art that isn’t hard to master,”

replies Eve,”I remember the Tree,

that intent to be lost, no disaster.”

Risk virginity and plant the Garden

of Ruin, choices sprout in the Valley

of Decision, let envy-seeds preach

the joy of stony paths, the barren.

The Curse bleeds down the century

writ in the warring signs of gender,

birth and death, hours badly spent

queue for excellence of knowledge.

“Count all things as dung,” one says.

“Leave behind what will surely rust,”

replies Eve, “loss of our timelessness

brings alive, revives a frailty of dust.”

BODY-BAG versions 1.0 and 2.0

by Avy Varghese on Monday, 20 June 2011 

The body is but the bag,

a boil, these many boils

then pock-mark a globe.


Yellow, red, black, blue,

white, brown, mulatto,

fat, thin, big, pink, a zoo.

But see, the Spirit of being

is entrapped within a boil,

mucoprurient, suppurative.

Such too are our many words

dispersed pustules, germs 

out of the sacks of excrement.

You may say I am pessimistic,

misogynistic, misanthropic,

seeing the world-body as evil.

But that is because you are

inside the bag, enjoying all,

but I’m on my way out of it.

(v 2.0 is the same with the addition of another “last” stanza – below)

No one sees what lies beyond,

the skin periphery,

the burst balloon, breathe air.


by Avy Varghese on Saturday, 18 June 2011

At 54, Ma, I wonder if

if I too am fated to be

on that rack you were

wracked up by sudden

wrenchings of the plier.

I remember, somehow

you never did dismiss

the love of the Divine

as abstract, forbidden,

it being for you to quiz

the Wherefore or What

or Why in the sight of

the Who of Adversity,

knowledge of the Gap.

So, when on that closing

morn I gave you a glass

of cold water, your last

sips on a dried up globe,

what did you bequeath

me? A faith in captivity?

I know you want me too

to be content with what

is given, look at all living

as a blessing, say “Well,

everything is by Grace!”


I second that but it seems

these gifts are for women

such as you and not a son,

a bad thorn, grown askew. 


by Avy Varghese on Friday, 17 June 2011 

when faced by a god

or gods out to fix you,

when hit by grey hosts

that mislaid their halos,

when not expecting rain

you still end up awash,

what is it that comes to mind?

be flexible, don’t complain,

flexible be, complain not, 

in everything give thanks

you can make sacrifices to devils

or placate one god or many

things can be better

or not at all,

just come home,

dry out


the envy

of both


and devils

yea, this is it that comes to mind.


by Avy Varghese on Wednesday, 15 June 2011

O Beloved,

i am you 

and you and you

and you are I

and we will be

and all still be

when all is 


and done

and misery

is crucified

and laid

in a tomb

we will


the rock

will roll

over you



by Avy Varghese on Wednesday, 15 June 2011 

i am the helpless leaf on turgid waters,

the river drives me where i am not,

the currents lash me to where i will be,

the memory of who i was is no more,

i live to be, to become is to live washed awash.


once i was green i lived drinking nuances,

now meaning escapes me, i turn red

and bespeckled, i ride the roughshod

and friends think i exist no more; perhaps

i disintegrate, my being mingles with you

who read, take me in if you will

or spew me out if you won’t, i will swirl

and over the rapids become the rock

you are dashed upon when all this tumult

breaks upon you, blessed and crushed.


by Avy Varghese on Tuesday, 14 June 2011 

Did I sin that all this happens to me?

Did my parents sin so it comes upon me?

One says: “It all rebounds to God’s glory!”

Who are these who nimbly pass me by?

Who are You who stops still by me?

I hear You spit, mix mud with it in Your hearth.

I receive Your sweet gauze of wettened earth.

You smear my eyes with this balm on skin.

You wipe my tears and knead spit therein.

You say “Wash!” and to the Pool I’m sent.

All opens to sight and then, off You went.

The Watchmen find me in beggarly clothes.

The Watchmen thrash me for all my flaws.

Some say: “Behold, the beggar!”

Some say: “Yea, it is he!”

Some say: “He is like him!’

I say: “I am; I was blind but I see!”

They ask: “Who is He?”

I say: “Don’t you see?”

They ask Daddy: “Your son could not see?”

Says Mummy: “Yea, but now he sees!”

They ask: “Where the Devil is He?”

They ask: “What did He so you see?”

They say: “Glorify God! A Sinner is He!”

I say: “O, if only like me you were needy!”

I say: “Sinner or not, He healed me! See?”

They say: “We know God! Who’s this Fellow?”

I say: “How funny! I see you don’t know!”

They say: “Sinner, do you teach us?”

I say: “The 1000-petalled Lotus!”

The Watchmen bind me and rain their blows.

The Watchmen cast me out with their blows.

He finds me: “Now, do you know?”

He finds me: “Now, do you love more?”

I know He knows I know He knows

“I love You more than these, You know!’


by Avy Varghese on Tuesday, 14 June 2011 

The One who can endure all Pain

surpasses God, Man and Devil.

God, silent waiting, seeing, broods

upon waters of unceasing Evil.

Man the Inept complaining, blaming

God the Father, seeming inertia.

The Devil darting, enflaming, laughs

at passions, lord of dementia.

God, Light Omnisicent, anesthetized,

non-sensing our Creature-agony.

Man, feeling, effervescent, mortal,

finding and losing, sad or angry.

The Devil, burning and setting fire

to man’s dreams, held in envy.

And I train my Spirit, endure all things

to outrun Pain, fall pure as rain.


by Avy Varghese on Sunday, 12 June 

Distances are Heaven pending

a special something, a curve,

an edge, the blessing nerve,

the living loving never-ending.

It can take years, it can be miles,

reverberations of unseen smiles;

it can be Hope, it can be dross

intimations of a self-made Cross.

It is Sweet Wife to whom I’m tied

with secret  vows none can untie,

and then, to know, as Time grows,

distances die, we flow alive aglow.

It is that Son I left as he was four,

and yet his love ne’er turned sour,

and steady burns his faith in me,  

the broken legs are re-set, free.

It is those Daughters of my delight,

two, whose smiles are ever bright

or quick to sense a sorrow’s depth

to fill it with love’s illumined wealth.

Some said this Family’s end was nigh,

but there is succour in silent cries;

a Lifeboat was dropped from on High,

Five have rowed to ride the Tides.

Distances are Heaven pending

a special something, a curve,

an edge, the blessing nerve,

the living loving never-ending.


by Avy Varghese on Sunday, 12 June 2011

The Shulamite, she left me blackened

King over 9999; that wise blackbird

knew how to sing, and flee

The Shepherd-boy, I see, is now King

re-united with she who spurned me;

and twas I who snatched her cherry

Psalm 151

by Avy Varghese on Sunday, 12 June 2011

1. You will always be the Sun, Glorious One,

Lord of Hosts, and all Angels adore You.

2. I am the Great Orphan, keening and wailing

at your cedar doors for the favoured look.

3. Upon the manicured walls of the Temple hang

gold pomegranates, date palms inscribed.

4. I am a red fox, I jump up hungry, high to grab

fruits, but these trees deny me starry yield.

5. Then, with my muzzle in the Earth, I find Manna

in these fallen yellow, red and black verses.

6. O give thanks to the Lord of Hosts, His mercy,

goodness, favor and wine endure for ever.


by Avy Varghese on Friday, 10 June 2011 

“Don’t make

me draw 

my sword,”

he warns.

“The Gurkha‘s

curved khukri,

once drawn

must spill blood.”



She laughs. 

His sword

slides out

his sheath,

a poisoned


First, he slits

his wrists.

Next, he

cuts off

his own


Bloody eyes



her thighs



an egg.


by Avy Varghese on Friday, 10 June 2011

I just wanted to play

in the sands all day,

wear my silly masks,

O they say: No way!

I just wanted to sing

Tring a ling ling ling

Tra la la tra la bling

O I hear alarms ring!

I just wanted to wear

Wild poppy in my hair

Stop traffic on a road

O they stop and stare!

I just wanted to dance

rhapsodies, no plans

to set a world ablaze,

“O correct that stance!’

I just wanted to laugh

with children, happily

faff,  try out the gaff, 

“O, mean it seriously?”

I wanna be free, funny

or as silly as pastry

slush on children’s lips:

“O mulch, O stupidity!”


by Avy Varghese on Friday, 10 June 2011 

in a dead dog chasing his tail in the dawn sun

and a flea running flying laughing loops

around him, i caught the red rays of innocence.


by Avy Varghese on Friday, 10 June 2011 

There is this pause – love,

so the Humans named it,

the black, many-hooded

Serpent of Ancient Time.

It’s little Snakeling Brood

has many names of Hell

inscribed upon their little

darting, hurt-pin tongues.

I know the Serpent Mother

and Her missionary Brood –

Jealousy, Fear, Rage, Hate,

Murder, Doubt, Bitterness.

Give the Serpent Mom milk

and honey and She will still

always be unhappy and bite

the heel or hand that feeds.

I’ve grown tired of the human

abuse of the mystery of Love,

I search for Him who crushes

the head of the Serpent Mom.

When the Earth is rid of Snake

scent and Her wiggling worms,

then I shall be free, All will be

well, All manner of things well. 


by Avy Varghese on Tuesday, 07 June 2011

how easily human we be

how easy to do evil to one

to do good to another

and find the slate is zero.

how difficult to be new

to do evil to none

good to everyone

and find all flourish together.

this secret i find in my bones

when I’m unkind

to know I’ve done only wrong

this secret i learn from heaven

or earth where the wind,

rain and sun give one and all.



by Avy Varghese on Tuesday, 07 June 2011 

I wait and I write

I write and I wait

the silent air out

the side window

blows love at me

the cicada among

the potted plants

sings what I feel

not a soul in sight

or far who knows

a wick is dying out

I write and I wait

I wait and I write.


by Avy Varghese on Monday, 06 June 2011

that timorous moment

between tick and tock

the hanging of a hand

of the wind-down clock.


by Avy Varghese on Monday, 06 June 2011

I yam what I yam, a Dadaist yarn in Dindigul

TV or FB gimme Beuysian fur fool I’m so cool

I dink derefore I yam da Surrealist spaceball

flying to fizz from netherly SrirangaVietnam,

lookee Ma, I playz hookie, hookup as Whitey

in Eluru, digga de Elephanta Expression dubs

cockamamie n awl Madrasi Martian Malar-mie

bardos, sing me stir poetry in coffeetea cups

snorting crystal dust in Delhi in Ur-Anus rime

or Thrissur stencha rosemary parsley thyme

hunt dem frisky Lingarajapuram lady laddoos

in verse even la Chinese can Twitter and coo

in Symbolist as Scarlet will teen witch Sabrina

sucking up to S. De in muggy Mumbai or Joyce

at fests la literature in Jaipur de princely fucks

mouthful of queens peepees on Qtubi Minarets

an Ixtlan flow Rimbaud as a Rampuri knife logo

black yellow brown red Mommas get me to ze

West luck me bliss me o endless embroideries.


by Avy Varghese on Sunday, 05 June 2011 

There’s a volcano ejaculating  hot lava in Chile,

so 3500 people must lose their homes to flee.

They’ve found that Air France Airbus that fell

to sea, salvaged a black box that tales tell.

Attack ‘copters are fanning Middle East turmoil,

the pyres of the dead add flavor to Western oil.

Chinese refugees in the West are still barking

for democracy, what they want is white skin.

Germany is looking ahead to its Green future,

nuclear-free energy is the people’s answer.

Japan staggers and trembles after the tsunami,

but none question corporate, political stupidity.

Africa burns like charcoal, Somali pirates rove

the seas, tribal wars spell the new prosperity.

Baba Ramdev sucks in breath and hairy stomach

and stone-age Indian yonis worship a lying Yogi.

I am sitting here quietly on Sunday with Kingfisher

beer to cheer on this futile televised litany of fear. 

“What is referred to as desire is the presumption

that happiness depends on an external condition.”


by Avy Varghese on Friday, 03 June 2011 

The Smile

laughs at

The Enemies.

Day of Trouble

Night of Weeping

Eve of Departing

Dawn of Nothing

Twilight of Doubt

Skies of Unreachable Heights

Seas of Asphyxiation 

Deserts of Dementia

Steppes of the Lone Wolf

Such a Smile

Four-fold Smile

my beacon in Anitha’s face

blossoms in Arielle’s teeth

flashes in Daniella’s eyes

red coals on Michael’s lips

The Smile 


all my


My Smile.


By Avy Varghese · Wednesday, 01 June 2011

bright pink,

furry poems

in wool 


round and round

my hall;


scrawled by

a gray




by Avy Varghese on Wednesday, 01 June 2011 

My Seven Doors of Senses

are open to evr’y creature,

all things base or beautiful

and soft wounds of ecstasy.

This first door is the insight

of bodies desired by mind;

the second door opens up

to moanings beneath night.

The third door is serpentine,

flicking pleasure, in and out,

the fourth door is wolverine,

glutton teeth, scented snout.

The fifth door of ambidextrity

brings flesh tones into grasp;

the sixth door of uncertainty

lets faith and doubt prolapse.

When the secret seventh door

appears, all binaries collapse

so I’m free to sing and dance

Time’s tunes on Tantric floors.


Come in, O, goodly creations

Come, let’s gambol in delight,

Come, exonerate this vision,

Come, all is in all ways bright.


by Avy Varghese on Tuesday, 31 May 2011

A ganglia fuels, finales a Gulag,

A usage falling; if Lasagna glue,

Fauna gags, Algae fail guns.

Algae fail GNU, Algae fail snugly,

Algae gains flue, Gaga allies fun,

Is Galena frugal?

Nausea gag fill, Gaga unsafe ill,

Ganglia flea us; Leaf, slug again,

Safe again, Gull?

Gales flu again, ages full again,

Sage full, fuel Gals, again Gals,

Flue again, Gala leafing us.

Gala falsie gun, Gala leaf using,

Gala age sinful, Gala unseal Fig,

Alga fail Genus.

Alga fans guile, Alga aligns fuse,

Alga gains fuel, Alga gal infuse,

Alga fan genius.

Anal fag guiles, anal flag guise,

Anal Gulags, fie! Nasal fag guile,

Faille, Gag Anus.

Alas, Guile Fang.

Alas, Aging Fuel,

Alas, Aging Flue.

Alas, Gulag Fine.


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Sunday, 29 May 2011 at 10:00

I’ve come by a winding path

and the straight and narrow

to the crest of the mountain

where hangs the Scarecrow.

So the Scarecrow whispers:

“A secret – yes, you can be

and I can be St. Malapropy,

form of Freudian therapy.”

I gaze upon the sack of straw

who crows, mocks with a caw;

when empty limbs flail to fail,

dry loins tell a laughable tale.


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Saturday, 28 May 2011 

Sometimes, in the sharpened

Himalayan light, Yakshi eyes

arise as glowing cubes of ice

reflecting off mother glaciers

and sparkling skeins trill down

to the pearl lake of her navel.

Sometimes, in the monsoons,

the inny, tiny lake is muddy

with moist molten chocolate,

she overflows clear-scented

as bees buzzing in lit patches

of sudden flowers sprung up

on her wanton banks below.


Sometimes, when the tremors

shake the peacock-hued fruits

off her ripening forest mounds,

tremble temple pillars and roll

thunder in juggernaut rathams

in Puri; a god’s consort wakens

to join her devotee in day-orgy.

Sometimes, when an Indian koel

blots out a sun with mating call

and his drunken, debauched, sly

crimson eye seesremembers

those shameless steps of David‘s

dancing feet, then you and I are

as maddened rutting elephants.


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Friday, 27 May 2011

Is it intimacy that makes lovers’ nights

violent passion or fear of loneliness?

Do they see every branch cat-scratching

at their windows as storm-claws?

Do they lock out the intruders, burglars

as they pace the bridge of sighs?

What deceptive waters flow beneath?

What rapids await their droppings?

Each bridge allows for three possibles:

pass me by, pass you by, meet.

Their undercurrents are lava flows, trouble

but they keep the fire-shard, its licks.

Their transgression is not about touching

but hides in the hunger, the gazing.

There it always lies, directly at their core,

the nails, the bites, scream of  wetness.

Yes, there in the loneliness of desires

alone, they can be themselves.

by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Thursday, 26 May 2011 

where ugly politicians lie without fear

and make plans to oppress the poor

and steal by day or night their rights,

whose minions belabour the helpless

and the superior castes piss on the low

and northerners worship white skin

and denigrate madrasis, nigger tribals

where kingly dynastic fascistic heads

are venerated by hindu mahasabhas

and rashtriya swayamsevak sanghas

and verminal vishwa hindu parishaths

and sly tongues are now waning proud

where knowledge and corrupt practices are taught freely

and beggars, fixers, middlemen uphold Chanakya‘s laws of chicanery

where the world always breaks me up into fragments and narrow domestic walls

and separates “first class” citizens from second and third and the inhabitants of the pit

and congeals our differences in the census of the blind, Mother Nature is raped and class structures

and the naxalites and maoists and terrorists have to take to the gun to give themselves frightening voices

where titillating and promising words are vomited out from the intestines of sly media

and its manipulators, spin doctors, preachers, teachers, gurus, godmen, godwomen, agents

sell ha ha ha cliches om shanti zindabad om lokah samastah sukhino bhavantu vasudhaiva kutumbakam

where tireless striving stretches its arms towards emptiness of labour and profit for captains of capitalism

where the girl child is aborted and women treated as chattel and paraded naked as witches and stoned to death

where the muddied waters of a multitude of vague philosophies have carried our ways of emptiness 

to the dreary desert sands of feudal habits, prayer, priests, temples, rituals, disorder and traffic of chaos;

where the mind is well forged by legalized criminals into ever-widening thought and action

where all is deemed rich philosophy, culture, religious fervour, hard work and yet remains dark destiny

into this dense jungle of mayhem chaos turbulence injustice communal hatreds

linguistic divides race skin politics east west north south incompatibilities and wild animals

may lightning strike sleeping Hindustan without mercy and unveil the coming of the Four Horsemen.


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Wednesday, 25 May 2011 
i am the hardening shadow

within your crevice

i am the green frog of love

hop node to node

i am the webbed slime feet 

climb ridge or rind

i am the spit taste of dew

in pink moments

i am the unfolding of lusts

inside your mirror

i am the ghost of fears

you pass through

i am your pound of flesh

your mashed melon

i am your hemlock juice,

your little death. 


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Tuesday, 24 May 2011

tell it to me

tell me what

you cannot

tell the world

whisper it

the transgressive


the forbidden


the titillating


the pornographic


the erotic


tell it to me

for i listen



tell it to me

spill it


a splash.


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Sunday, 22 May 2011 

i meet her in this hall of mirrors

clad in a rich purple kimono

flowing down sloping shoulders

the gentle frame of her face

matches her laughter

and directness of her gaze

she plays with her piled up hair

looking for the safety pin

when a presence enters her lair

he takes a pin out, she unravels

the black river of her tresses,

his breath down her neck travels

with sure strokes over her frame,

he stokes up in her the flame,

which burns robe away from skin

“see yourself in your mirrors:,

he sighs, “see your high

breasts, navel, the wanting v”

she turns from mirror to mirror

legs parting, face, buttocks,

changing perceptions for ever

before she knows, he enters her,

discomfort, sweet discomfort,

pink feelings fill, tear her asunder

i am there in that mirrored hall,

when he gives it hard to her

i am tilling her and i hear her call


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Saturday, 21 May 2011

The Angel at the White Gate said:

“You’re either guilty or innocent,

we do not admit the in between.”

“Didn’t come here to enter in,”

said I, “came here for a peek.”

The Angel at the White Gate said:

“We don’t let in any Peeping Toms

either, you’ve bad history, Mister!”

“It depends on what you’re looking

at or for,” said I,” I’m a Watcher.”

The Angel at the White Gate said:

“And you’re the one who dug Eros

and taught that free sex is Love!”

“It depends on the way you see it,”

said I, “you can repress it or don’t.”

The Angel at the White Gate said:

“You’ve been consorting too with

demons, I see their spittle on you.”

“Demons? I’ve known some strange

creatures,” said I,”all of them good.”

The Angel at the White Gate said:

So what of those who’ve prayed

that it might go badly with you?”

“Ah, those demons, they’re simply

jealous,” said I, “let them go free.”

The Angel at the White Gate said:

“And this big list of crimes brought

against you? You are not guilty?”

“Do what you will with me, I know

I’ve loved,” said I, “Life and Liberty.”

The Angel at the White Gate said:

“You think that’s enough to get in

here? It’s not free, earn your keep.”

“Sir, but I have not a penny, I gave

away all I had,” said I, “in the living.”


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Saturday, 21 May 2011

It was in strangulate

1998 that the Curse

was laid on me so I,

delivered to Satan

by apostles of Deity,

fell in Hades’ Circles.

The Saviour watches

and quietly laughs.

In the first Shadowy

Circle, I was damned

to swill strong drink,

absinthe and arsenic,

to sire the fire-proof.

The Saviour watches

and quietly laughs.

In the second Spiritual

Circle, I was auctioned

to serve the God Eros

who unbarred for me

seclusions in a Psyche.

The Saviour watches

and quietly laughs.

In the third Abandoned

Circle, I was summoned

to find the graveyard

where all compassion

has been slaughtered.

The Saviour watches

and quietly laughs.

Thirteen years be gone

grinding at this Stone

cast down from Heaven

to this Valley of Bones,

a broken, ashen Song.

The Saviour watches

and quietly smiles.


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Friday, 20 May 2011

Since no one else will bother,

it is best done by oneself.

Yet, a favour you can do for me,

just wish me dead dead dead.

Beyond that, I’ll take up my cross

to walk a road that you dread.

To prepare for it, it’s writ or said:

your own blood must be shed.

Do not discuss this knife of death 

with sheep who fear to be bled.

Burial requires doing good to all, 

the way that leads to fatal fall.

One must too shout out the truth

from rooftops, be misunderstood.

Tap dance to heal sinners damned,

drink wine with swine condemned.

Do it well, when they tire of parables,

they’ll feed you to the wise rabble.

Line your robe with threads of love,

tell them mercy drips from above.

Now hand them dice to shake for you,

let the Hanged Man play it through.

Carve out a soul shaped as a cave,

hide in the rock and wait for day.


By Ampat Varghese Varghese · Friday, 20 May 2011

all of you


one of you

blackguards laggards haggard

retards dotards dullards

placards vanguard avant garde


goliards laggards niggards

sluggards stinkards

bustards buzzards canards










she swells


ripe breasts



juice and milk

in pits








by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Thursday, 19 May 2011 

I am






across fast











my image 

I am


like him

who went


out the door

He cut down

the tree

in the woods

to match

the trunk


on his canvas;











on water



by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Thursday, 19 May 2011 

The swaying branch of a hand

tapping me on my shoulder

in the graveyard shift.

The moon, a cataract-stricken

eye ghosting me like a slippery

cat lapping milklight.

An abandoned shovel beside

a headstone with its epitaph

erased, awaiting re-write.

Starflowers ebbing like watery

spillspots sprinkled across

the obsidian bowl of night. 

I stand still, listening yearning

for that single hollow owlhoot,

the bringer of bleak insight.


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Wednesday, 18 May 2011

There is that Nimisha, just a Nimisha,

when the Veil of Manush is collapsed;

the gilded curtain, priest-fabricated,

is torn up bottom to top in a temple;

wet with blood of mute beast and bird

and shook by the din of 30 dead coins;

a Naked Man sings, no self to defend.

Then in the rift of that moment, the gap,

the unseen, the divide, the thunderclap;

two curious lit eyes of a lively dormouse

peek out from the Holiest, grey little spy;

pillars drop as dust, a dismantled house

forsaken falls while on yonder Mountain

my Tablets and gravestones are broken.


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Wednesday, 18 May 2011 

Leave without leaving behind a date.

Burn diaries, photographs, every gift received.

Lay a curse over all you gave, let it decay where it lies.

Delete the faces, also facebook. so they appear faceless even in dreams.

Twine barbed wire into and around the heart.

Find a rodent to love, they’re more loving than the scum you loved. 

Bind and imprison the ones left behind in a secret sigil.

Never forgive, only forget.

Play that song of once-togetherness backwards for Satan.

Cover your bed with slain bouquets and sleep under the bed.

If you meet ghosts on the sidewalks, pass right through.


By Ampat Varghese Varghese · Wednesday, 18 May 2011

just be

a boat,


on an

empty sea,


sky liberty

as you sink,

let it




by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Tuesday, 17 May 2011 

The new rain falls like wild stones

from the heart of the light-eating thunder,

animal storm of banshee pleasure and punishment. 

She smells of the running feet of the earth

where I am bowed down, the torch of my tongue

climbs, patches of sunlight on toes calves knees inner thighs.

This she-rain boils away the cold wax

in my hearkening ears, her sparkling flesh stretches,

taking my biting kisses into her pores, dewdrop touchtones.

She is wine swirling down the rapids of her gasps,

hidden moonblood of fertility, capillaries, veins, arteries,

rushing winds blow out her windows, her limbs are thrashing trees.

I am peach or chocolate liqueur, heady saliva

she mingles with her tears in mouths open wide-eyed,

she releases floods, unfurls seas into oceans snaking silken sheets.

I am shot by her silver pellets in every brain cell,

I flow into her oasis pools sheltered by thrumming fibres,

I am her eyes, her nipples, her ripples, spheres and fulness of milk.

I coalesce congeal on the damp plain of her stomach,

my lips lap at the edge of her luminous crystal navel well,

she smiles, yawns, strokes my hair, slips away on diminishing breaths.


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Monday, 16 May 2011 

trust not every embrace,

humans touch to scrape

each other off as scales.

trust not any talk of love,

the tongue is first honey

and then turns vinegary.

trust not the gentle kiss,

it can be forked lightning

or a lie, a spat, spot bliss.

trust not hurt or healing

or rebuke or chastening

or generosity or gifting.

trust not an eel or snake,

creatures slippery make

for a twist, a double take.

trust not the burn-light

of sun, or a moon bright,

walk in singled eyesight.

trust not friend or foe,

the unstretched bow

or fleeting fire-arrow.

trust not god man beast

empty west or wise east

it is all Barmecide’s feast.


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Sunday, 15 May 2011

Listening to

this song

in May,

I return

to another


in another


in a

fallen sky



a Hawk

and I, 




For a long while 

the red flower

rests, a green

wound upon

her breasts,

petals warm

under feathers,

fed gently by,

a sharp beak


only for


My fragrance

fills her skin,

I fold my

silk wings

over my thorns

so she

will not feel

my prick.

How time 

has flown

and winds


two ends

as one

and one,

only a





Now I  wonder,

when I am gone,

will she exist

or crash

with me,

two stones

as one at once

hurled into

an empty



by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Sunday, 15 May 2011 

we meet like vampires on screen.

we meet and we are still unseen.

we meet and all is sex, wild text.

we meet and we dare interpret.

we meet and our genitals touch.

we meet, it is rough and tough.

we meet as one family of mules.

we meet to churn ocean of milk.

we meet because we love our ilk.

we meet because we dont understand.

we meet because the serpent lives.

we meet because the dove outlives.

we meet because we are in love.

we meet because it’s all we have.

we meet because our sorrows pass.

we meet because we’re lad and lass.

we meet because we don’t know how.

we meet because we drift up above.

we meet because someday we’ll part.

we meet because we all have heart.

we meet because we are stolen.

we love. we live. we love. we live.


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Sunday, 15 May 2011

to sleep, knowing that such a sleepless Night is

moving a silent carnivore in me, you, all.

to sleep, nonchalant of what the next cockcrow

may bring, a three-fold denial of the Light.

to sleep, toss now and then left to right, right to left

tilting sideways, the ship slow going, under.

to sleep, watch in this cavernous space, Shadows

flicker on walls to teach and to tear asunder.

to sleep, the Buddha convolutes the Middle Way,

awareness that compels action is deceit.

to sleep, Sankara’s snores embrace a smiling Sage

in the sewer of history, he lies more subtly.

to sleep, a Jain monk circumambulates my supine Body

leeches, wasps, gnats, maggots bites save me!

to sleep, a Ramana in padmasana fixes in a forehead,

makes the mountains heave with asphyxiates.

to sleep, a Pandita recites shlokas of the Ramayana

in wax ears, the buzz of mosquitoes on Golgotha.

to sleep, a Mira’s lamentations awaken aching loins

calling to Gopis cavorting in the blue prana.

to sleep, a Paramahamsa glides upon polluted waters

and offers my head to a bloodthirsty demoness.

to sleep, a Baba teleports from east to west in saffron cowl

drawing ignorant maids to snuggle inside Gorgon curls.

to sleep, a Mother clasps children to soft billowing breasts

and her hottie hugs are enough to make them chirp.

to sleep, a Guru smiles from a photo whispering sorcery

in a mantra and devotees pluck out their glazed eyes. 

to sleep, wisdom knows the clinking of coins ready to be laid

dirtied by trader caste thieves upon my closed eyelids.

to sleep, perhaps Venus will rise after I’ve written all this,

read and ponder, what is it he says and it’s worth less?


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Saturday, 14 May 2011 

I hold this scalpel, steel and shiny,

sharp enough to probe your hiney,

when we order the surgical strike,

pus drains from the puns you like.

The slit is sure when expert made,

the boil bursts quick, the cascade

of words bitter first, sweeter later

bites the lips of the unwise prater.

An incision made, bad blood flows

when old and new come to blows,

slow nemesis lives as Lady Sepsis

in regal robes, a dull amaneuensis.

A rot lies in the fragments blown

up, order kneels, crumbles down,

chaos disfigures seed and sprout,

a scalpel to sore dispels all doubt.

See how the viral worms squirm

in abcesses as a scalpel digs in,

feel it excoriate the silly vermin,

patriarchy, matriarchy, a bargain,

racism, feminism, constructionism,

structuralism, deconstructionism,

absolutism, absurdism, acosmism,

accidentalism,  altruism, atheism,

classicism, deism, conventionalism,

darwinism, hedonism, hinduism,

gnosticism, historicism, pessimism,

hylozoism, henotheism, humanism,

watch how the viral worms squrim

in abscesses if the scalpel digs in,

feel it excoriate the silly optimism,

idealism, individualism, immoralism,

libertarianism, legalism, nominalism,

monism, transhumanism, marxism,

vitalism, creationism, dystopianism,

totalitarianism, transcendentalism,

yes, this knife slices hot and deep,

anaestheticised or aestheticized,

yes, I’ve many promises to keep,

excisions I undertake in my sleep.


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Saturday, 14 May 2011

scuttle as a mole on facebook,

burrowing in its holes, it’s fun,

frivolous, flirty, frolicking with

men, women dreaming smoke

and snakes, reading daily crud

we lock within memory’s mud

the mosaic of friendlies patting 

one another on waiting backs –

you’re good we’re good yea all

is good,  it ees a good practice,

protect the children, avoid all

mockers, let’s make this world

somehow a virtual better page

Marc Zuckerberg laughs and I

do too at all the ‘zuckers’ who

outside of their miserable tiny

lives in the world, asses trying

to be a name or fame, monied,

wined, dined, laid, network rut,

cross your heart, hope is more

than real here where lies strut.


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Saturday, 14 May 2011

twnkl twinkel liddle star,

will a poem take you far?

up above de whorl so high

Babu Englees lullabye

mold ma plasticine linguage,

boyz n gals cum lingam play

‘y not cummin in tday?’

w8 dark till n Freedm Prk

pnch a ole in mbl stone


gld to silvr end a spoon

sckng on an eye scree cone.

Soda Babu Butler’s Englees 

munsters mangle minglees

Manglish, Tamlish Hinglish

bra cups fmble massie mish

c how gr8 a pome i yam

wot I yam! do u no wot

u R? u r wot U iz! u IZ wot

u r! sht da fck up BS, plz! 


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Thursday, 12 May 2011

set a dog to chase a lion

set an owl to catch a hen

when the sky is full of flowers

ere the rain takes root in suns

set a man against a woman

set a child against a vulture

when the forest glades are weeping

when night birds are purple screaming

set a nation against a prophet

set a hero against his grain

when the harps and lutes are broken

when the borders want transgression

set a tongue against an eardrum

set an iris against the spectrum

when the colours are not rioting

when the waters are not parting

set a pawn against a bishop

set a knight against a queen

when the star is blackly burning

when the serpent lust is hissing

set a dream against a nightmare

set the truth against the snare

when your love or trust is broken

when your end’s an empty token

set the empty against no future

set the soil against the tiller

when the butterflies are laughing

when the demons bring me loving


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Wednesday, 11 May 2011

I do not believe in taking a literal knife

to the enemy’s heart, I would instead

gladly consider her as an extinct dodo

rubbed out like a rotten line on a page

of life, to deal death doubly dead, I rip

this page itself out, trash it in a sewer,

watch her dissolve into muddied tears,

float away , a dying Diwali lamp sailing

on waters that’ll ne’er return to source.

When you cross out a person, you must

burn every thought, word, smile, deed

in the furnace of the future, kill the past

that was ne’er really present, except as

sad gusty impressions that were a gas,

nothing; the silenced bird must not sing.



If you realise her now as dead dead dead,

seal her well in the coffin of forgetfulness,

bury her, an ashen ant , in a burnt ant-hill

or write her down coded in a poem unread.


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Wednesday, 11 May 2011

A Reality is always the image in the Mirror.

Each ravishing woman is wrinkle and dust.

All refinement of habit is theatrical mask.

The soul is shit we stir to find gold coins in.

Every friend is a potential enemy of desire.

Follow the cat, devour life’s dying children.

The Raven is the Dove condemned by God.

To be hurt is to taste the poisoning of love.

Unbelief is the magic cause of faithlessness.

If explanations fail, hide in the Om rootless.


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Tuesday, 10 May 2011 


My Mink My Mine My Mint My Mite

Wrap My Meat My Mean My Mine

My Mane My Mate My Tin My Take

My Name My My My  Eaten  My Taken

My Toffee My Coffee My Cone My Ink

My Kitten My Item My Anti My Tea

My Teat My Tie My In My Out My Amen


Homo Irony Homo Unity Homo Tiny

Mouth Intro You Mouth Irony Too

Mouth Into Your Mouthy In Mouthy Into Our

Mouthy Noir Too Houri Mutton Yo Houri Mount Toy

Oho Tiny Tumour Oho Touch Tumour Ooh Unity

Ooh Hot Tumor  Ooh Unity Ooh Mutiny Ooh Rising Tumour

Outhit Morn You Outhit Norm You Outhit Mouth Yo

Hurt Motion You Thru Motion You Trans Motion Feel

Mucked Pees Muck Seeped Puck Suck Me Deeped

Cums Peeked Pecked Em Us Pecked Me Us

Deck Seem Up Deck Pee Sum Cums Decked Um

Cud Peek Em Cud Keeps Em Cud Keeps Me

Cud Peeks Me Cums Pecked Em Us Pecked Me

Speck Due Em Speck Due Me Puck Seed Em

Puck Seed Me Suck Peed Em Suck Peed Me

Suck Deep Em Suck Deep Me Deep Suck Me

Cums Ed Keep Cums Pecked Em Cums Peeked Me Us


My Mane My Meat My Mink My Mate

My Eaten My Taken My Teat My Tip

My Mouth Into Your Mouthy In Mouthy

Into Our Mouthy Noir Too Houri Mouthy

My Puck My Peed My Suck My Cums My Amen



by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Monday, 09 May 2011

To realize that you are

available like the Rain

or the Sea that helps

wounds with the burn

of salt, the cushioning

of seaweed and sand,

and yet still unsought

by God or humankind

The Truth has set you free.

To realize that you are

Haven for the hopeless,

the always poured out

flagon of dry red Wine

for drunkards, for swine,

a Flower to be gathered

by the Sun in a moment

of fragrance, withered

The Truth has set you free.

To realize that you are

a Gift to be given away

rich Dowry for a Groom

who cannot imbibe Love,

to be an invisible Crumb

under the Table of Usury

so ants alone can gather

you as food in dry winter

The Truth has set you free.

To realize that you are

the Hand that wild dogs

must bite after supper,

the Loins that the living

must castrate in Spring,

the Eyes the Philistines

must blind and conquer

The Truth has set you free.

To realize that you are

always a sighing Voice

in the wilderness void,

the Thorn stuck inside

of all celebrating flesh,

the Wound that cannot

heal itself, yet is solace

The Truth has set you free.

To realize that you are

that silent cool Zephyr

calming fevered brows,

urgent caressing Arrow

who lets beggars know

Life and Love are Flow

The Truth has set you free.


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Sunday, 08 May 2011

A Man without a soul

sits before a screen,

sighs for Mangosteen.

A prick, long as an oar,

whips up a static roar,

ploughing with a scowl.

A Man without a soul

with his begging bowl,

is looking for a Queen.

A Woman without soul

is waiting for the light

to fill her hole up, tight.

A cunny wet as whey

is ready for the play,

actors learn the role.

The purple shell peels

as digital love reveals,

soulless despair rows.

The screen is a mirror

of secrets down under

skin or hood, discover!

A river wide and deep

flows for those asleep

in Mangosteen rapids. 


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Saturday, 07 May 2011 

The gentle Sadhu’s dream still bleeds from your pen,

my Dark Continent bows, arrays you in sandal paste.

The archaic is your liminal procession, you set flight

to twittering baby-birds into colorless waste, blight.

When I was a silly child, I was enamoured of your

pastoral vision, silver tongue, holy stupidity, your

eyes, but when the smoke cleared, I left your mirror,

soft drugs, white beard, the Romantic or Nationalist,

the habitual sub-continental slavery of scum to Gurus,

the sanctity of reverence,  I chose the occult poisons

over healing potions, the left-handed path, head-rush

of realities you did not pursue in your Island of  Peace.

You never impressed me, Seer, your cautious intelligence

of desiring only the Good led to a desertion of experience

that mingled both Sacred and Profane, made your devotees

into slaves of repetition and bankrupted all Western beggars

at the door of the East, abandoning their knowing the Machine,

the ecstasies of Science, Pharmacopoeia, the breaking of skies.

You sat in your grove to hypnotise seekers, you called up ancestral

ghosts wandering the planes of Bardo as cattle or fungus, chickens

pecking at Upanishadic coping mechanisms, breaking their beaks

upon my new, golden grains of wheat, a genetically-engineered

Gora stands and blinks lost in this tandav of destruction,

pinned down by mental disturbance rising in this Kaliyug,

in this Aeon where your simplicity is mistaken for a lost wisdom

and your mysticism or concern for reform is mistaken as insight.


By Ampat Varghese Varghese · Friday, 06 May 2011

before and after coming and going

entering and departing always in

between lightless fallopian tunnels


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Thursday, 05 May 2011 

I accept these crushed fingers

and broken arms

I cannot stretch out in pleading.

I accept these bloody ankles

and busted knees

I cannot bend lower in kneeling.

I accept these burnt eyelashes

and smashed eyeballs

I cannot open wider to seeing.

I accept these collapsed lungs

and blocked trachea

I cannot expand in breathing.

I accept this crushed heart

and clotted arteries

I cannot flush out to flowing.

I accept these rotten teeth

and cracked lips

I cannot bring into kissing.

I accept these lobotomies

and skewed brain cells

I cannot urge again to thinking.

I accept this nailed tongue

and dead epiglottis

I cannot trigger into speaking.

I accept the Corpse of Life

and the weary maggots

I cannot scrape off my skin.


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Wednesday, 04 May 2011

The red Sun turns blue

as ice; she burns me,

I am the Learning Tree.

Wet nights, I retreat

into the soft Moon,

I return, Hollow Man.

My own Leaves laugh

at bleached powers,

they detach, drift me.

Space. Time. Distance.

My being seeks Silence.

Purple Seas will recede,

slow-roiling centipedes

waggle legs as cripples.

The Sky rolls in patches,

I watch for dead Stars

through locks, latches.

My being knows Silence.

Space. Time. Distance.

Full Flowers are weeping,

given into Life’s keeping,

dewdrops, disappearing.

The Earth opens her crack,

the Rock breaks my back,

Words speak in appearing.

Space. Time. Distance.

My being sings Silence.


By Ampat Varghese Varghese · Wednesday, 04 May 2011

A little red ant swings

on a pachyderm’s tail,

a bite is slapped away.


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Monday, 02 May 2011 

I’m the Corpse Flower,

I bloom with purpose,

smell what you do not

dare, your own sterile

decaying, the arriving

destination, full stop.

You can’t run and hide

from the black hooves,

the buffalo cavalcade

coming to trample you

under, so grow bigger!

You can play favorites

or kiss the sad choices

of arses that you lick,

and in the end the rot

sniffs you, snuffs out.

It’s the lies you enjoy

that sting weak noses

or stop the empty ear,

the blinkered eye fails

in extremis, antipoles.

Polite, sick bourgeoisie,

your cowardice will see

you flee from the smell

of a big Corpse Flower

that rings a death knell.

Awake, if you can, wake

from all imbecilic illusions,

sucking up to friendship

will keep you away from

the Corpse Flower petals

that lick with wet wisdom.


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Wednesday, 30 March 2011

This is how the Next Age will be:

We will be green spherical jellies

that melt to fit one another;

none will have sad unseemly edges.

We will gambol like dolphinettes

in waters that taste of mint;

there will be no sharpened harpoons.

We will walk upon a repaired earth

and feed on pomegranates;

no accursed dharma, sowing or reaping.

We will rollick in patterns that flow

as shifting incandescents;

warm in all shades of luminescence.

We will not argue, discuss, bargain

with lurid words of murder;

looking into eyes will bring acceptance.

We will not feel our bodies collapsing

under a weight of regrets;

the beat of our hearts will be quietness.

We will see our children’s children

coo as doves in the Garden;

their laughter spicing our dying breath.

We will hover as humble butterflies

above this Sphere of Spheres;

our sparkling colors smiling at the dark.

This is how the Next Age will be.


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Tuesday, 29 March 2011

Have you also known the fatal touch of that arousing Stranger who skinned me?

I am turned around, a rudderless backward journey begins with these dark steps,

the Sun is always behind me, the tingling flowing rivulets beneath the feet teach

me, all Motion is wet Stillness. I climb a board-walk, a smuggler of mantras among

living matter, clean and unclean, counting out the permutations and combinations,

couples or holy sevens.  I climb the board-walk, the darkness swallows an urn-self

corroding as a God-tarred shell, an animal of animals, caged, upright, safe, saved?

Banshee clouds come with brackish litany of destruction, hear clamoring, pleadings,

I am thinking “Selective breeding”. Blackened hatches crash battened down, float!

Inside here too, twitters, squeals, grunts, smells of sweat and dung, the heaving

to and fro, the rocking, high and low, the crashing on tossing walls, a whispering;

but I am alone, the sensations wash off my marble body, I preview death and life

equally. Now I am the raven’s frame and curious eyes, leaping out a new window

hopping-hoping twig to twig, branch to branch, trunk to trunk, bridge to bridge,

bud to bud, flower to flower, awaiting the end-flood hush, the crippled birdling

free from the arc, fluttering corpse to corpse, feeding on swollen beast-bellies,

infested sog-vegetation, erased manifestations of the human, a disintegrating

upon wind-molested tides, this too is Life and its circumcision by Nature. I fly

in the Raven. I also return. I change my body for that of the Dove, seek a sister

afar, a mountain rising, on the first tree of the morning, she is awake, cawing,

mourning for these sea-beds of ruin, mourning for all that remains to be ruined

as we sit together on that swaying branch, a rainbow searing the sky, laughter,

feel the grinding of the Ark pinnacled on the mountain beneath, an  “Araraat”,

we name it all anew, in waters gleaming under the sun, in all sacrifices to offer,

choosing from colors of life inside that wooden belly, the ones who are Chosen

for sacrificial pyres under night skies for the Stranger, in dark Waters, in Fires,

here a Stranger and his priests write endings into beginnings, ending to begin.

Smoke, phrases

by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Wednesday, 23 March 2011

What’s all this dope? Crack signals.

Are they eloping? Do they deny it? Fatal, romances.

Playing footsie? How far up the thigh?

Lady, Gaga. Attention, ooze. Come, clean.

Tiring old game. Snore, Sleep.

Devils know better. Exhibitionist, voyeur.

Want to look? What is seen?

Bold is cold. Divorce at fifteen.

Marriage for a despondent generation.

The next couple? Judge, executioner.

Further, faster, filthier.

Hetero-normative cuddles. Homo, tender coconut.

Ferment it.

Peers suck you. Shepherds, fail.

Priests hide Mystery. Sodomy.

Love-hate indicators. Facebook polls.

Professional walls. Like, dislike.Comment.

Tides, turn. Moons are bigger. Fortunes fluctuate.

Save in gold. Burn paper, plastic. Buy a Uzi.

Half-assed minds. Reality TV. War is sex.

Cameras fucking.  Porn is Goddess.

Lens wide shut. Deep Throat.

Photography, dead. Quake, Doom. Land-art.

A spade is a spade. A club is a club.  Phalo-phoolo.

Smoke, phrases.

More, bring

by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Wednesday, 23 March 2011

Hey Man, what are you up to? The Devil’s booklist.

Devour the antelope. Ride. Sacrifice the horse. Disrobe a princess.

Let words drizzle. Wetness, wantonness. Something wicked happens.

Accumulate knowledge. Flay romance. Draw circles. Star wisdom.

Mistreat choice. Master folly. Women as trees. Axe flesh.

Unclear, feelings. Overwhelm. Decipher. Inscribe.

Trajectories of suffering. Screw, it helps. Genuflect within.

Self-flagellation. Coda: purify, debilitate.

What’s the call? Oh, my love. Whip cracks are real. Happiness is fizzle.

Farm. Bovine life-fields. Grazing cows. Flow, river of milk.

Love intensely. Hate evenly. Light, Darkness. Brother, sister.

Crest the peak. Tumble, down. Float, between. Drink droplets. Spit seeds.

Be grateful. Document moments. Heighten powers. Mistaken suns. Dog’s buns.

Veda-circumcised. Deva-machines. Asura-clocks. Hug all. Distance, fall.

Damn pleasure. Erotic Oreos. Replace words. Change it all.

Playing with words has more consequences than you imagine.

More, bring.

Play, sinister

by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Wednesday, 23 March 2011

How does it go? All is good with you? No problems? Are you happy? Getting laid good?

Music is playing? It inspires you? Peace or war? Thank you, fresh wound.

Friendship is fun. It’s a dilemma. Shit happens too. All means much.

It’s more than family. Soul-mates wear spikes. Porcupine love. A thorn up the ass.

This zygotic divide. One can lie a lot. Listen to liars. Lies and liars, truth.

Plain bullshit. It’s up to you. You have to choose. Lose one, win none.

Fucking, breaking up. Smoking up together. Eat, shit and piss. Anal sex wonder.

Living the same bowl. Wait till it spills. Wander away. Do you want it back?

It’s never the same. Long stories kill love. Use and discard. Life, next chapter.

Dreams speak soul. Can’t read the signs? You must be dumb. Learn mind games

All is sex masked. There is no equal fun. Trust no one. Kill those who help. For returns.

Need is desperation. You’re going to fall. Failure is pleasure. Break every promise.

The world runs aground. English rules. Hindi skives. Thought- factories. Hives.

Positive orgasm. Negative eyeballs. Blow up bubbles. Insane is shameless. Lavatory game.

Let me flush. Down and out. Into the sewers. Flow to rivers. Seep into seas. Ejaculate dissolution.

Radioactivity. Mercury poisoning. Die, fishes, die. Mindless places. Lose your touch. Tell me, self.

Ramble on, rehearse. Be disinterest. Keep indifference. Smile. Grin. Dogs in the manger.

Bones set to break. Pun, speak. I’m here to listen. Slutzy, what’s it? Bitch with a secret.

You don’t drink? Mommie’s orders? Am I high? Did it happen? What the fuck? Lick dreams.

Brutality is good. Better you than I. It’s a cruel world. Romantic, mysterious. Waltz with internet.

Are we debauched? Are we karaoke? Are you staring at skies? Think the clouds care?

Play, sinister.

One comment on “POETRY 7

  • Love the tones n rich text..”think the clouds care..play sinister”…”veda circumcised deva machines”….bionic ironic Ampat! Smoke, phrases was super contemporary…its almost like a new side of your mind unfolds…fab! 🙂

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